


Tit for Tat (or more than that?)

by ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 11:55:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1743818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonpanparade/pseuds/ivefoundmygoldfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade pickpockets Sherlock's phone. Mycroft calls. Sherlock is not amused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tit for Tat (or more than that?)

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Око за око (или нечто большее?)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3591807) by [AnniePhoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnniePhoenix/pseuds/AnniePhoenix)



Lestrade hummed happily to himself as he entered his flat, kicking his shoes off before making a beeline to his couch. Damn, it had been a long day and he was happy to finally be in the comfort of his home again. It wasn’t luxurious and his furniture was well-worn, but it was a breath of much-needed fresh air after the day’s events. He really didn’t think that he was paid enough to juggle the stresses of the job, especially when those stresses included Sherlock Holmes withholding crucial evidence. Heading over to Sherlock’s filthy bedsit to retrieve—or rather, to wrestle—the victim’s phone from him had taken the better part of his evening, leaving only enough time to grab some fast food for a quick dinner on the go. It hadn’t all been in vain, though. Despite his disregard for crime scene etiquette, Sherlock was able to make hypotheses, correct misleading hypotheses, and then turn them into confirmed facts much faster than anyone else at the Yard, and therein laid the crux of Lestrade’s reasoning for both accepting and requesting Sherlock’s expertise. They _needed_ him. Yet that didn’t mean he couldn’t teach the consulting detective a lesson. Such greatness needed to learn respect before it could ever begin to move towards goodness.

He reached into his pocket to pull out Sherlock’s Blackberry.

_Lestrade: 1, Sherlock: 1._

Tit for tat; wasn’t that how the saying went? And boy, did he feel good about his ability to purloin Sherlock’s phone without being caught! Sherlock had another thing coming for him if he thought an old copper like him didn’t have any tricks up his sleeve.

Judging by the way Sherlock had flung himself onto his couch, enshrouded in his dressing gown and curled up in the foetal position to carry out a colossal sulk, he wouldn’t realise his phone was even missing until, well, Lestrade had stopped by the Yard to return the evidence before going home, so, another twenty minutes or half an hour at most. Perhaps once he realised that he had had one pulled over him, he would storm over in a huff, demanding his phone back. Lestrade laughed loudly at the image, immediately feeling the day’s tension begin to drain out of him.

When the phone was in mid-air—while he couldn’t unlock the phone, he was determined to get some entertainment out of it, even if it was through something as trivial as throwing it up in the air—it started ringing. In his initial shock, he fumbled, groaning when his funny bone hit the edge of his coffee table in a clumsy attempt to catch it. He almost had half a mind to answer the call and snarl profanities into it just to vent his discomfort when he noticed the caller ID on the screen.

_Incoming call…_

_Mycroft_

Oh. Thank goodness he hadn’t gone with his gut instinct then. They may have developed a mutual respect for each other, built around their common interest in Sherlock, yet he really didn’t think that Mycroft Holmes with his fancy suits and public schoolboy English would appreciate an earful that would make a sailor proud. That impulse was quickly replaced by another irrational thought: he wanted nothing more but to answer the phone and strike up a conversation with the man he had only met twice—all further communication had been conducted via email—and he'd be lying if he said it had nothing to do with the easy rapport that had been part of their previous face-to-face conversations. He’d also be lying if he said it wasn’t because he wanted to hear Mycroft's voice again. And so, with fingers trembling slightly, Lestrade pressed answer and lifted the phone to his ear.

“Hello, brother mine,” Mycroft drawled.

Bloody hell, that _voice._

“Uh, hey Mycroft. I know I'm not Sherlock, but...”

But _what?_ He really should have thought about this before letting his impulsive tendencies take over. Then he wouldn’t be backpedalling furiously like he was now.

“...Detective Inspector?”

Perhaps it wasn’t all that bad, though. Mycroft recognised his voice, and only after meeting twice! He knew he had a bit of an accent, and if he trusted his intuition and what Sherlock said about the elder Holmes brother, then he was ridiculously intelligent too, so it shouldn't have come as a surprise. But still! The thought of Mycroft recognising his voice sent a small, irrational thrill coursing through him.

“Did something happen to Sherlock?” 

Oh. Now it just seemed more likely that Mycroft had merely deduced that he was the person most likely to have Sherlock's phone. It's not like he was wrong about that—as far as Lestrade knew, Sherlock didn't seem to keep the regular company of anyone else. It probably didn’t help that he called Mycroft by his given name too—it was something they had both agreed on, considering that Lestrade was in regular contact with the other Holmes, and perhaps it was a grasp at aiming for something more casual. Well, he knew that _he_ wanted it to be something more casual.

“None of this Detective Inspector business, Mycroft. If I’m calling you Mycroft, then you can call me Greg. And no, no, nothing wrong with Sherlock. I just…” Lestrade paused, weighed his options, and then opted for the truth. Hell, it felt like he was seven again, reciting his wrongdoings to his teacher and waiting to hear his punishment. “I pickpocketed his phone because he withheld crucial evidence.”

The quiet laughter that filtered through the phone's speaker was a surprise and a delight.

“I must commend you on the way you deal with my brother, Greg…ory. Your methods are certainly most... unconventional and clever, and I believe they will prove to be rather effective.”

The lilt with which the compliment was delivered or the shift to his given name did not go unnoticed. It sounded as if the other man was testing how it felt on his mouth, and while Lestrade didn’t know how it felt for Mycroft, it definitely sounded glorious to his own ears.

“Well, you know, taste of his own medicine and all that. And Sherlock's not the most conventional individual either,” he added a beat later.

“Ah, yes. I may have employed reverse psychology in the past to convince Sherlock…” Mycroft trailed off with a chuckle.

“Oh, I can see it now.” Lestrade put his feet up on the end of the couch, got comfortable, and put on his best commentator voice. “The great Holmes Brothers are engaged in another battle of wits. Sherlock attacks Mycroft’s impeccable clothing choice as he angles for the rights to conduct an experiment on them—obviously the wrong way to go about it—ohhhh, Mycroft points out Sherlock’s undying love for his older brother and his three-piece suits, effectively sending the younger Holmes’ reeling in disgust. Sherlock leaves with a dramatic twirl and a huff, and Mycroft reigns victorious with his three-piece suit still intact!”

“Your imagination is quite impressive, Gregory.” 

“But was I right?”

“Yes, at least on some points. He was, and still is, so eager to prove me wrong. Fortunately for me, that works in my favour.”

“Heck, he must have hated having you as his older brother.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Damn, there he went putting his foot in his mouth again.

“I mean,” Lestrade rushed to explain. “You're obviously smarter than him, aren't you? Sherlock's brilliant, but I don't suppose he learnt that all by himself. And goodness knows he hates being bested or corrected or whatever.”

“Correct on all accounts, Gregory.” There was a muffled sound of amusement on the other end. “And to think that he says that _you’re_ not clever.”

“I—I—oh, bugger. There he is banging on my door now. I'd better go before he knocks it down.” Lestrade fidgeted and then blurted out, “Um, Mycroft?”

“Yes?”

“It was nice talking with you.”

“Although unexpected, I, too, very much enjoyed the course of our conversation.” A sharp intake of breath was barely audible, but it was enough to be heard. “Perhaps we may continue this at another time?”

Lestrade paused, letting a wide smile settle firmly on his face. While Mycroft had previously said that he would contact him—for Sherlock-related matters, Lestrade reminded himself—correspondence was restricted to brief emails and none of the conversations over coffee or tea that he had been inclined to believe would happen had eventuated, and he didn’t understand why. But whatever had been holding Mycroft back didn’t seem to be a hindrance any more. And he could work with that. Yes, he could _definitely_ work with that.

“I’d like that, yeah.”

“How does—”

Before Lestrade could hear the rest of Mycroft’s suggestion, Sherlock burst through his door and snatched his Blackberry out of his hands.

“I’ve told you before; you can’t just break into my flat like that, Sherlock!”

“And you can’t just take my phone like that!” Sherlock exploded.

“Pot, kettle,” Lestrade reminded. “You were the one who stole the phone from the crime scene earlier today.”

Sherlock ignored him in favour of concentrating on his phone; fingers were flying over the phone keys before halting abruptly. He made an exaggerated face of disgust. “Ugh. You were talking to _Mycroft_.”

Lestrade studied Sherlock’s face for a moment and then grinned broadly. “Yeah, yeah I was. Was good to talk to a charming, polite Holmes, for once.” 

“Charming! You think Mycroft is _charming!_ He is anything but _._ ” The way Sherlock spat out the word made it seem like something distasteful. Or perhaps the distaste came from its association with his older brother. “Controlling, yes, domineering, yes, nosey, yes, but there must be even less in your brain than I thought if you think that he is _charming._ ”

Before Sherlock could expand on his little tirade, his message tone proclaimed the arrival of a new text.

“And now he’s texting. He hates texting! Why is he—oh, ugh. Keep the phone if you two are going to use it to navigate your clumsy attempts at courtship with each other. I don’t want to be contaminated.”

“C-Courtship?” Lestrade choked.

Sherlock thrust his phone into Lestrade’s hand in lieu of an answer. “Now he can finally stop dropping by my flat in the hopes that he’ll accidentally meet you. Yes, he drops by quite frequently. No, you weren’t meant to know. And do close your gaping mouth, Lestrade; you look like a goldfish.”

Lestrade did as he was told, eyes still open wide with wonder. So, the wish for something casual, no, something more than casual hadn’t been one-sided on his part then. He risked a glance at the phone, wondering what he would see. 

_Brother mine, do try not to break the door down next time. Please tell the good Inspector to be ready this Friday by 7pm. I will have a car pick him up at the Yard for our dinner. M_

“You can’t get out of it now.”

“Oh, I don’t plan to,” he responded smugly, relishing the look of horror and repulsion that Sherlock directed at him.

Everything about this whole unprecedented situation made him feel like he was dancing on air. Lestrade was positive it was showing through every fibre of his being and, well, if Sherlock couldn’t turn off the part of his brain that was in charge of deducing, then too bad for him! Lestrade held Sherlock’s gaze and quirked an eyebrow, daring the younger man to say something.  

“Revolting, both of you.”

He was still laughing even after Sherlock had slammed the door, Belstaff billowing in his wake. Phone successfully stolen, lesson taught, Sherlock thoroughly and emphatically disgusted, and an upcoming date with Mycroft—yes, today was definitely shaping up to be a better day.

_Lestrade: 4, Sherlock: 1._


End file.
